All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

Many times man lives and dies between his two eternities: that of race and that of Soul... A brief parting from those dear is the worst man has to fear... Though grave diggers' toil is long... They but thrust their buried men back in the human mind again.

I think it better that in times like these a poet's mouth be silent, for in truth we have no gift to set a statesman right.

If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.

I have found nothing half so good / As my long-planned half solitude, / Where I can sit up half the night / With some friend that has the wit.

A line will take us hours maybe; / Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, / Our stitching and unstitching has been naught... Better go down upon your marrow-bones / And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones... For to articulate sweet sounds together / Is to work harder than all these, and yet / Be thought an idler by the noisy set.